


Four Days with Lazarus

by LadyCharity



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Brother Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loki Feels, Norse Bro Feels, Sick Fic, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:54:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2050854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCharity/pseuds/LadyCharity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the sky falls, he reaches for his brother.</p><p>(in which Loki is afraid of hell)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Days with Lazarus

**Author's Note:**

> Combine a lovely trip to the world's longest cave system with an interesting conversation with my sister, and unsurprisingly you get a Thor and Loki fic from LC. Enjoy! 
> 
> Thank you to timelordanon for being my beta uvu

_Ah, shit and piss._

The stones were so cold they felt slick. It was a dry cave—the air chafed his throat and he shivered from the cold. He thought that he would panic within these stone walls, if this gilded hole in the ground could be described like a cottage, enclosed spaces with no left or right entrance to escape through, like a coffin in which he could only squirm and gasp for air. Instead, he was drowning in the emptying space.

Loki tried not to breathe in too deeply. He was hiding in a concert hall, a grand castle entrance where every sound is the orchestra, his footsteps shrill and his breaths a solo. In this deadened silence, where the trickle of water can only be found several miles away from him, he was exposed.

“ _Loki_!”

The shout reached miles and miles ahead of Loki, he could swear it. So forceful that it would make ceilings collapse, cause tidal waves in underground rivers and awaken terrible beasts no eyes ever could see. Loki pushed his hand against the rock he leaned upon, as if that could be enough to hold on and not be swept away by Thor’s voice.

Footsteps upon grit, like broken glass. Loki couldn’t gauge how far or close Thor was from him; he couldn’t see. He could convince himself until he was raving mad that he could see his fingers on the rock, see his arm when he turned his head, could see a ghost of a source of light, but he knew bitterly that he could see absolutely nothing. He might as well have been struck blind, and perhaps if he already were he would have less trouble trying to escape Thor, because at least then he would have experience in groping in the dark.

“You cannot run away anymore!” Thor’s voice, while the only sound in the cave, sounds so _small_ compared to the space they were lost in. “Show yourself, Loki— _where are you now_?”

(Loki, Loki, where did you go?)

Caves made of mismatched chairs and blankets draped over them. Crawling on all fours—a gilded small candle in their hands that shone through on the other side. Thor’s smooth face made orange by the small flame, eyes fixed anywhere but Loki for the sake of imagination.

(Loki, I can’t find you. Don’t wander too far, where did you go?)

Loki did not know why he was remembering this, as he was hiding for his life.

Grey, and shadows. Loki could see change, swirling, shadows dancing on the ceiling of the cave like running water. His breath stopped short in his throat; he could pick out the orange glow of Thor’s torch, its light tantalisingly dancing closer and brushing Loki’s edges. There was no eagerness for games in Thor’s voice, and Loki knew if Thor’s eyes found him amongst the shadows he would not pretend he saw nothing.

He breathed heavily. The deeper he ran, the less he would know, and Norns only knew how much his seidr could help him when he was several hundred feet below even rats and graves. Running from Thor, trying to hide and shake Thor off, him and his righteous anger and shock of seeing Loki once again, the shock that Loki would _dare_ show his face in Asgard again—running from all that into the mouth of the cave, he might as well just have let Asgard execute him.

“Are you going to hide in the shadows for the rest of your life?” Thor said. Loki couldn’t see his face from here—he was just an orange pinprick, symbolised by light in this damning darkness. “Come out and fight me—you haven’t hesitated before! _Come out and fight like a man, you coward_!”

A growl ripped itself out of Loki’s throat. Before he could control his temper—much less value his life—he hurled a jet of seidr toward Thor.

The green light was like an ugly scar upon the perfect blackness. There was a yell when his spell made contact, but Loki could scarcely draw another breath when—with the half a second warning of the whizzing of wind—Mjölnir threw itself against his shoulder.

Loki fell back, meeting uneven, shattered rock. Mjölnir crashed against the rock, spraying sparks like diamonds until he felt himself illuminated for seconds for Thor to see. The hammer raced back to its master and Loki could only throw himself out of the way before it came for him again, burrowing itself into the rocks when it could not crush him.

Sight only lent itself in streaks—Loki’s seidr and Thor’s hammer meeting stone erupted a dance of lights, not only striking blows but a desperate attempt to give sight, to gauge whether to strike or to hide. Any light gave each other away—with lights flashing intermittently, Thor running closer and closer was like a scene of a nightmare.

(Loki, where did you go?

Thor’s freckles were dark on his nose from the candlelight. He grinned at Loki—a tooth was missing.

It’s so dark, Thor, Loki whispered, and all it took was to blow out one candle. It’s so dark, Thor, where am I, where am I—?)

Loki staggered back. He felt the side of his head bleeding. He couldn’t see Thor’s state, but his aims were clumsy, brute forces rather than aiming to kill. In the moments when they were both blinded, they still knew where the other was from their panting.

“Are you tired of your own games yet?” Thor said. To hear Thor without seeing him was nightmarish—it made Loki think of the Void, except he was deeply settled in the earth, not apart from it. “Enough of this hiding in the dark—come out of here!”

He spat—whether he was spitting out of disgust or spitting a mouthful of blood, Loki didn’t know.

“Come out of here!”

And to what—to Asgard’s gallows, to dig his own grave before they cut off his head, to a jail cell so deep underneath Asgard’s spectacular prison that he might as well stay in this pit himself?

Loki _ran_. There were paths and turns, winding coils like gnarling, twisting fingers digging into the dirt and leaving spaces, as if Yggdrasil had first planted on Asgard and left behind the caverns and hollows that its wide-reaching roots carved out deadened vessels in this corpse of a realm. He could be running to Asgard’s beatless heart, its lungs, deeper and deeper until his own heart was the only beating one in miles. He ran, legs pumping, breath tearing, nowhere to go and running, from the thundering behind him.

(Come find me, Thor—they were only two metres apart with a single candlelight between them and it was farther apart than they would ever dare to be from each other)

Don’t catch me, he thought. He ran so fast until only one line of thought could repeat in his head—don’t catch me, don’t catch me, don’t catch me. Don’t throw me into a cell, don’t forget me in chains and silence. _Don’t catch me—_

There was a yell. Loki veered to the left out of instinct, and perhaps would have had his neck snapped had he not. Mjölnir slammed against his right shoulder and he fell, tumbling, jagged rocks dragging across his skin.

Suddenly the ground gave way to nothing—he dropped off the edge.

He was falling—

_Don’t catch me—_

His heart stopped; he thought he would die before he fell even five metres.

He couldn’t see, he was blind, he was falling in impenetrable darkness and the end of the drop could be ten metres or one hundred metres and he would never know.

He was _falling—_

(Catch me, oh God—)

He was torn on both sides—as if he was falling down a crack in the earth. He tried to reach his arms out, to catch himself between the two faces of the cave, but his hands slipped and the rock curved out of his reach, the chasm growing wider and thinner like ocean waves as he fell.

He hit against the wall. His hand flew to it immediately—his fingertips bled, trying to find a crevice to hold on. He stretched out his arm; his shoulder twisted in pain.

(Oh God, please _somebody catch me_ —)

The side of the cliff, the edge, began to curve outward, crumbling into a slope, until his body roughly met rugged rock and tumbled down to the end.

The opposite wall cut the slope short—he slammed against it, his fall abruptly cut short. The breath was knocked out of his lungs and he gasped for air that wouldn’t come. His head exploded in pain.

Stars danced in his sight—the only thing he could see.

He had stopped falling, stopped moving, so why did the sound of _falling_ still crumble in his ears?

There was a loud crash—rock sprayed onto Loki like ocean crashing upon crags. He choked, tasting age-old dust in his blood and spit.

And silence. Dust settling, shattered rocks running like a stream downward, collecting in pools. If his wheezing would give him away, after his fall of at least a hundred metres, he couldn’t bring himself to hide. When he tried to hold his breath, he felt as if he would lose his mind.

There was no distant glow of a torch above him, of Thor peering over the edge expecting Loki to have fallen to his death. Loki couldn’t remember if it was already extinguished during the fight; he closed his eyes, trying to clear his head, and found that it made no difference.

No shout. No echoing, muddled voice from over the edge, one hundred metres above his head. Thor did not know about his fall, or did not care, and assumed him dead and finished. Turned on his heel, and made his way back to the mouth of the cave, to sunlight that didn’t condemn him if it shone on him.

Something stung when Loki breathed. If he had a broken rib, there was nothing he could do about it.

He risked some light. Raising his palm above his head, he conjured a small, weightless orb of light. It bloomed from his palm like a miniature sun rising, casting dull light about him.

His eyes stung.

“Damn,” he whispered. He blinked, trying not to look straight into the light. “Damn.”

He sat up. His head ached. The side of his head felt wet and hot; he didn’t touch it.

He stood up and let out a sharp gasp. His left leg trembled uncontrollably underneath him; he leaned heavily against the wall to relieve it of its pressure. He might have sprained it from the fall, for now too tender to support himself. Damn useless if he needed to continue running away, assuming Thor had not left him for dead. He didn’t know which he preferred.

He ran his hand along the rocks, careful not to let his already ripped fingertips graze too sharply, half clawing the rock for support. There were no obvious footholds he could hold onto—some piles of large boulders that must have been left from when the ground had fallen through, perhaps centuries ago in the silence, that were possible to climb onto and then find a way back up. They were caught in the tight space of the crack in the ground, wedged immobile where the two walls were the closest to each other. Bits of broken rock still trickled down the sloping side, like rainfall.

He let go of the light; it rose above his head, dangling above him like some dying star. Along the side from which he fell the crumbled boulders were jagged, slabs of cracked, fallen rock. Further away from him, if he continued walking, the space opened, releasing him from this cramped space to Norns knew where—endless darkness.

He heard a noise behind him—muffled, almost imagined. He stopped short. He had ruled out the possibility of a beast living this deep into the cave, but the Norns liked to savagely play with their food.

All there was behind him were the pileup of broken rock. He remembered a crash that wasn’t him, of jagged pieces trying to smother him. He didn’t remember the ground collapsing underneath him to the edge, though.

His breath stopped short—and he could still hear breathing.

“Loki?” said Thor. “Is that you?”

Thor’s voice was hoarse, almost suffocated as it squeezed its way through the fallen stones. That voice that once shook the air until it frightened thunder out of its clouds was now barely audible.

Loki clenched his teeth. He said nothing, though he swore his heart would have given him away. He closed his fist; his ball of light dissipated.

Darkness again. Every sound multiplied—their heavy breaths, the only stirring air. Loki didn’t dare to move.

“Loki?” Thor said.

“Brother,” Loki said.

He didn’t know why he spoke up. Only that Thor’s voice almost beckoned him to, out of instinct.

Thor’s breath hitched. Loki could hear it even here.

“What the hell did you do now?” Loki said.

He slowly, slowly took several steps back, toward the open space, away.

“I fell,” Thor said. “And I couldn’t see.”

 _Good_ , Loki thought viciously. Good.

“I swung Mjölnir—and I must have hit the face of the cliff because it broke and fell with me—it would have crushed me if it didn’t—didn’t catch upon the walls, I—”

It struck Loki with much delay that Thor wasn’t on the other side of the fallen rocks—he was trapped underneath them, surrounded by them like a tomb. Three was all it took—one in the front, one in the back, one on top, enormous to the point of unreachable.

“You _idiot_ ,” Loki said.

An instinctive laugh escaped his lips. He couldn’t believe his luck. The Norns have shown _mercy_ to him, albeit belatedly and for something so strange. He nearly doubled over in his elation, careless about whether Thor could hear in his stone solid prison. He could find a way out of this fall—it shouldn’t be difficult, he had climbed worse and escaped from worse. He could have a running head start for this endless cat and mouse, resist that crude temptation to see familiarity on Asgard again, not that this cave system was the least bit familiar or comforting.

He turned to leave Thor to his grunting, pushing, whittling himself out of his impulsive mess before belatedly figuring out a much more effective escape, when Thor spoke again.

“I can’t get out,” he said.

Loki stopped. He wanted to turn back around and spit at Thor, though a good four feet of rock stood between them. Spit at him for his sheer _idiocy_.

“I can’t lift the stones,” Thor said. His voice was too quiet for comfort. “I can’t make them budge.”

“What a pity,” Loki said. “It appears they have not found you worthy enough for them.”

He swallowed hard. His leg throbbed. If he broke it, he needed to bind it, put it in some splint, except there was nothing but nature’s flotsam and gypsum. The longer Thor struggled, the more time he could buy.

“Loki?”

 _What_ , Loki wanted to hiss back, but found it too tedious to speak when he was trying to breathe.

“Are you still there?”

“ _Eat_ your way out,” Loki said, wiping his lips. He tasted blood. “Maybe you’ll grow ten times your size. Use your toy to smash your way out of your troubles, as it has worked so well in the past, has it not?”

He knew right as he spoke it that Thor could not. Any wrong blow to the stones would lead to the one encasing him like a lid to a box to crush him. Even swinging Mjölnir overhead would rain hailstones.

Loki’s laughter flaked away to breathlessness. Surely several _rocks_ in the way would not be what made Thor vulnerable.

He heard heavy grunting. Thor was trying to push against the rocks but to no avail. Loki couldn’t tell if the rocks were trapping him like a box, or perhaps even pinning down one limb.

“Get out of the way,” Thor said.

“What are you doing?” Loki said.

“I’ll fly my way out of this with Mjölnir,” Thor said. “Before anything has a chance to fall on me.”

“And crash yourself into another face of the cave and bury yourself there?” said Loki. It was harder to raise his voice as his leg protested loudly over it. “Perhaps you won’t be so lucky the second time you let your hammer ram itself into everything. You don’t even know what lies ahead to fly into—for all you know, it is straight into the mouth of a lindworm.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, lindworms live in mountain woods,” Thor said.

Loki grinned in spite of himself. But Thor’s silence said how dire this truly was; Mjölnir was no use when precision was the key to survival—when destruction of the elements meant further destruction of themselves. Thor, with not enough strength to lift the stones on his own, was trapped.

He didn’t realise this smile fell from his lips until it was long gone.

“Loki,” said Thor. “Are you still there?”

Loki said nothing. Thor was in utter darkness, in silence, with only at the very most half a feet of space all around him to move, if even. In silence, in darkness, in a tomb nature dropped on his head.

“Loki,” Thor said. “Loki!”

His voice barely shook, but Loki could catch it even with the barrier between them. Loki still said nothing, making himself mute—Thor’s only sign of the outside reality. He could turn around and run now—Thor would not notice, would not know the difference. Thor could not chase him and take him to prison and shame, condemnation and hatred. He could leave Thor here—and he knew that Thor had the same thought.

“Loki?” Thor said.

His words were drenched in fear. His fists banged against the rock, first furiously, as if full of righteous anger, before hysterically, striking every place imaginable, Thor’s wheezing accompanying it. Thor, almighty Thor who challenged Frost Giants to war, who took down Chitauri like they were matchsticks and dared treason to save Asgard from Svartalfheim, who used to chase away nightmares with wooden swords, was _frightened._

Loki thought he would find this gratifying. It only made his heart sick.

“Stop that,” he spat out. “Stop that, you’ll waste your energy.”

Thor’s pounding halted immediately. Loki stepped closer.

“Loki,” Thor said. “I thought—”

“ _One_ of us was actually taking the time to think about what to do and not swing their fists at anything,” said Loki.

He clambered onto the rocks that trapped Thor, casting another light of seidr again. The one slab that covered the opening was the largest, too wide for Loki to have a real grip of it. He swallowed.

“You push up, I’ll lift,” said Loki. “Perhaps you aren’t strong enough on your own.”

“How great is this stone?” said Thor.

“Tiny,” Loki said. “Laughably small. You should be ashamed of yourself for being unable to lift it.”

Thor snorted.

“And I’m sure you can knock it off far better than I?” he said.

Loki reckoned this was supposed to be a slight, but at least he was not the one helpless underneath rocks.

“Would you rather I didn’t try at all and leave you to drown in your own sweat?” said Loki.

Silence. Loki found his footing, his left leg still trembling underneath him. He placed his hand upon the stone.

“On the count of three, brother,” Loki said. “One—”

“Hold on,” said Thor.

Loki gritted his teeth.

“Okay,” said Thor. “One—”

“On my count,” Loki said. “Two—”

“Does it _matter_?”

“Three!”

Pain shot through the entirety of Loki’s leg as it was forced to support the weight of himself and the effort of the stone. He let out a cry but did not let go—Thor was barely visible underneath it, his hands bleeding into the rock as he tried to stand underneath the weight. Loki nearly lost his footing—he almost lost his grip and sent the stone crashing right onto Thor’s head. His heart skipped a beat when he thought this was the case, but he kept his end up.

“We need—” Thor sounded as if his ribs were digging into his lungs, puncturing holes until his voice leaked out. “—to push it to the side.”

“ _Dammit_ ,” Loki spat out.

He reset his footing—his left leg all the while being crushed—and hoisted the stone over his shoulders to push it away from him. Thor managed to straighten his stance, lifting the stone until it teetered uncertainly on the edge of its foundation. With a yell, he gave it one last shove; it hovered in its place for half a second—half a second of sheer terror that it would come crashing back onto Thor’s head—before it resolutely tipped over and fell to the ground with a thunderous crack.

Loki had yet to catch his breath before he felt for Thor’s arms and helped to haul him out of the rubble. He let out a sharp cry when Thor’s weight was on his leg and his knees buckled underneath him; the two of them fell to the ground, bloodied and breathless.

“What was that?” Thor said. He pushed himself up, turning sharply to Loki. His rough hands met Loki’s shoulders, shaking it clumsily. “Did I hurt you?”

Loki clenched his teeth. For a moment, he forgot the year, the time, that this wasn’t five hundred years ago when he and Thor were exploring a ravine and they had accidentally tumbled into the gorge, Thor having the gall to land right on top of Loki. There was no broken bone then, no split skin, just bruises, and they helped each other back on their feet before climbing back to their horses and returning home. In reality, just perhaps half an hour ago, they were possibly aiming to kill.

“You’re a fool,” Loki said. “You’re a damn _fool_. Why did you fall?”

“Why did you?” Thor said, indignant.

“I fell because _you_ hit me,” Loki said. He pushed himself up to sit and swallowed hard. Even in the dull light he could see his left leg was in a horrible state. “I didn’t exactly do it on purpose.”

“If you didn’t run you wouldn’t reach far enough to hit this fall,” Thor said.

“If you weren’t chasing me—”

“Is that your excuse?” said Thor. He rose to his feet. “You were the one who ran into the damn cave in the first place to get us in this mess!”

Loki laughed mirthlessly. He too forced himself onto his feet, keeping a hand on the wall so that he would not fall back.

“What did you expect me to do?” he said. His voice rose, nearly overpowering the screaming in his mind, the internal turmoil of emotions and pain. “Let you catch me? Then throw me into—into some cell, some coffin you carved out for me? Your own Asgardian-made cave, void of light and air, so that you can forget me?”

“You lied to me!” Thor said. He took a step closer to Loki; there was little space in this chasm, and he was nearly stepping on Loki’s battered foot. “You let me think you were dead. You took father’s place on the throne, you betray—” His voice faltered, breaking off, before he swallowed and spoke again. His voice was quieter now, and more poisonous. “You betrayed my trust. You betrayed my home, my kingdom. Do you think I would just let that slide?”

Loki said nothing. He clenched his teeth to keep from groaning in pain. Instead, he pushed Thor away and bent low, trying to tighten the straps of his boots to keep his leg in place. There was nothing he could use as a splint down here, not unless he found adequately straight stalagmites.

“Why did you do it?” Thor said. He picked up his hammer from the ground. “Why did you lie, why do you _always_ lie to me?”

There was so much desperation in that question.

“Because—” Loki broke off and he laughed at himself. His hands shook. “Because I _hate_ the truth.”

He breathed in deeply, and breathed out. The gypsum flowers above their heads shone a bleary white in Loki’s light. If the sun was given permission to come inside, perhaps they would shine like snow.

“How do we get out?” Thor said. “Or did you run here with no intention of going anywhere?”

Thor had stepped out toward the opening. When his back was turned to Loki, Loki took off his vambraces and strapped them to his leg. It was a clumsy attempt, but it was the closest he could get. The light above their head flickered.

“Hell,” said Loki. When he rose to his feet, he thought he would fall upward, his head spun so. “I don’t know.”

* * *

 

(I found you!

Thor brandished a wooden sword which, albeit laughably short, was already too big for the blanket cave. He scooted closer to Loki, grinning with eager triumph.

Found you, Loki!

Thor was only several metres away the entire time, still reasonably visible with the candlelight. Loki threw his arms around Thor’s neck anyway—)

Loki could tell Thor was cold. Outside where earth actually met sun it was summer, the heat reaching stifling heights, but here it felt as if the year was dying, and that if he had enough light at all to see he would see his breath as clouds.

Thor surreptitiously tried to keep his cloak close around his shoulders. His arms were bare, unprepared for the plunge of twenty degrees, and bleeding.

Loki said nothing. Neither of them said anything as they searched for a way up. Wandering deeper seemed unwise, but climbing back to from where they fell seemed nearly impossible. Thor flying the both of them up was too much of a risk in case he would accidentally lead them straight into the rock ceiling, and cause a cave-in.

Loki felt his lips cracking; the last time he drank was from the river hours ago; any subterranean river in this system, if any, would be perhaps hundreds of feet further down. He tried not to think about it.

“Shit!”

Loki shuddered and fell against the wall, hissing. His leg was shaking uncontrollably; he tried clamping his hand over his leg to suppress it. Thor stopped short, one step ahead, hand held out—whether to reach out to Loki or to stay away like warding off a vicious animal.

“What happened?” Thor said.

Loki shook his head. He couldn’t keep walking like this, but what reason was there to tell Thor? There was nothing either of them could do—these stones in this cave were not healing stones, and his seidr was weak from no food or water. If anything, it was a hindrance—if anything, with the heights that needed to be climbed and the cracks to escape, it was a reason to fall behind.

The realisation made Loki speechless, his voice utterly gone. Thor abandoned all pretence of apathy and hardened bitterness; he hurried to Loki’s side.

 “Are you hurt?” Thor said. “What’s wrong, Loki?”

Loki felt beads of sweat burn his hairline. He shook his head, trying not to pant.

“Tripped,” Loki said. “Damn rocks everywhere.”

“Couldn’t you make the light brighter?” Thor said. “So we could see where we are going?”

“What do you want me to do, light up the entire cave system?” said Loki

He hardly had enough energy to keep his fractured bone from shifting out of place and muffling the pain with the little seidr he had, much less light the way like he was the damn sun. The light was enough to see at least five metres around, and Thor’s face.

“You are the one falling over,” Thor said, his voice harsh.

“Why don’t you do your share of risking a little light?” said Loki through clenched teeth.

“If you haven’t noticed,” said Thor, “there aren’t any clouds here.”

“The almighty Thor, powerless in the presence of a clear sky,” said Loki.

Thor gave Loki a shove. Loki grunted.

“There is nothing to catch fire if I strike stone,” Thor said. “Except ourselves, and that wouldn’t be helpful to either of us, would it?”

“I’m sure we’d at least see better,” Loki said.

“You’d rather choose self-immolation than using a little more of your magic?” Thor said.

Loki said nothing. He closed his eyes, then immediately cursed his decision as it only intensified the pain he was trying to ignore.

“Is this the right way?” Thor said.

“I don’t know,” Loki said. He cursed softly. “This is madness. We could be walking further down for all we know. There may not be a way up, and even if there were, we don’t know if it is the _right_ way up.”

“Maybe some cave troll that lives here will come out for fresh air,” Thor said, bitterness dripping from his lips.

“Nothing larger than your finger would live here with no sun for their lives,” said Loki. “If anything alive in this cave could kill you, it would be me.”

Thor said nothing. Loki reckoned neither of them knew if he was being serious, albeit very true.

“I can assure you,” Loki said, “that if I wanted you to die, I would have just left you behind.”

“I know,” Thor said. His voice was soft. “Why didn’t you?”

Loki dragged his wrist over his forehead. Sweat clung to his hand.

“Why didn’t I what?” Loki said.

He was breathless after this, trying to speak with enough life to hide from Thor the injury.

“Why didn’t you just leave me behind?” Thor said.

Loki gave a wry smile to the dark. He thought he would regret it, but now he couldn’t exert the effort to try. It came to his realisation, like noticing the change of the new month or year, or just discovering an arrow through one’s stomach after rigorous battle, that this was the first time he conversed with someone, like this, that he could remember in a long time.

“Wishing you were back there?” said Loki. “Or rather, would you not have done the same thing?”

Thor shot Loki a stricken look. Loki pretended he did not notice. They had been aiming to kill, or so Loki had thought. Leaving the other to die should not have been anything different.

“Do you really believe I would think of doing that?” said Thor. “Leaving you behind like that, to suffer on your own? In the dark?”

 _In the dark_ , as if they were still children and Loki still needed candlelight to go to sleep. He breathed out deeply—it was meant to be a sign of mirth, but it came out as a need for breath—because wasn’t that what Loki was meant for? To be locked away in Asgard’s dungeons, to be ignored for years, alone? The only difference was that Asgard liked to put their prisoners in the spotlight, so that they couldn’t hide their own shame from themselves.

“And did you believe, then,” Loki said, “that I would have wanted to do the same to you?”

Thor did not speak. Loki felt an urge of anger, burning up his throat and clouding his head. He didn’t understand where this emotion came from.

“You sick bastard,” Loki said.

He walked faster. Thor grabbed Loki’s arm roughly, nearly pulling it out of its socket. Loki let out a growl, turning quickly to rip away from Thor.

“Don’t you dare pin me as hateful,” Thor said. “Don’t you accuse me of being distrustful. I once trusted the man I called brother, but I don’t even know if you are him anymore.”

“All this _anger_ ,” Loki said, his throat tight. “All this indignation that you had thrown away very quickly all of a sudden in Svartalfheim, suddenly comes back with a vengeance. I’m beginning to wonder if you wished I had stayed dead.”

Well, he wouldn’t be alone.

“You think I am insulted by that?” Thor said. He stopped in his steps and grabbed Loki’s shoulder to keep him from moving forward. “You think that is what hurts me, that you did not die?”

Loki stared straight in Thor’s eyes, daring him to surprise him. Thor set his jaw. His grip on Loki’s shoulder tightened.

“You broke my heart,” Thor said. His voice was low. “You let me think you were dead when you were alive this whole time. You let me think you—you let me think that I didn’t— _why_?” The question exploded from Thor’s stuttering with such force that Loki had to close his eyes. “Why did you lie to me, why did you pretend to die—?”

“You think I pretended?” Loki said. He huffed out a laugh, tucking his chin to his chest as if he couldn’t look straight from all this humour, when really it was because Thor’s gaze was starting to burn. “You think it was all a hoax, that I had…”

He swallowed hard and brushed Thor’s hand from his shoulder. He laughed again, harder, a hand upon his chest as if he needed to catch his breath, all the while genuinely disappointed in himself that his heart _felt_ at all, that it gave enough of a damn to pinch itself into shreds like a child ripping up their drawing or clumsy craft in a hurt fit. Suddenly that scar on his chest felt useless.

“Loki,” Thor said.

“Shut up, brother,” Loki said. He pressed his fingers against his lips; the blood on them was drying. “Don’t speak, don’t speak to me. Just shut up.”

“And then what?” said Thor. “Let you stew in your hatred and bitterness? Let me be left in the dark after agonising, after even wishing death myself because I thought I lost you?”

“I am not the monster in this,” Loki said.

“Neither are you the only victim,” Thor said. “Loki—brother—”

“I thought that I lost that title,” Loki said, each word as spiked as the shards at their feet.

“Why did you not tell me you were alive?” Thor said, spitting out those words that were strangling him. “Why did you make mourn for you, again, and _again_ , when we could have—when we should have—”

Could have and should have what? Loki did not fantasise, not when he was alone in the Void, not when he was wracked with so much howling pain and hollowing loneliness, not when he bled and was on his own—if he Thor knew he had in the end survived, he would have been thrown back to where he had begun. Odin would have thrown him back into the cell despite what empty promises Thor made, he would be a hated prisoner with no family and name, he would be an outcast with no reason to be alive other than to die.

“What good would it do?” Loki said. The corner of his lips twitched upward in spite of himself. “You no longer regarded me in life, what would a little death have mattered to you—”

Thor suddenly raised his hand. Loki held his breath, staring straight at Thor and daring him to deliver the blow. Thor breathed heavily, his hand poised and shaking.

Hit me, Loki thought. _Hit me_.

Thor gripped his hand into a fist, until his blood-stained knuckles strained white, but lowered it. Loki wanted to spit at Thor, but found himself too empty to give anything else away.

“I had loved you, Loki,” Thor said, his voice as hollow as the caves they were trapped in. “Don’t make me suffer for it.”

Loki smiled, and let it freeze on his lips.

* * *

 

“We need to stop,” said Thor.

The ground was unpaved, crumbling rock that sometimes sifted like sand at every step and forced the ankles to twist. Loki’s stomach churned—the up and down motion, the stumbling, the horrible throbbing in his leg. He tried to reach out for anything to lean his weight against—the cave was too wide to reach the walls, the ceiling too high, and there was only Thor at his side.

“What for?” said Loki. “Tired, brother?”

Thor stopped abruptly. He took Loki’s shoulders to keep him from moving forward, turning him roughly to face him. The movement made Loki’s head spin.

“What now?” Loki said.

Thor took Loki’s chin, forcing Loki to fully face him. Loki clenched his teeth, trying to keep his gaze in Thor’s to give him no reason to hesitate. The focus made his head hurt.

“Look at you,” Thor said. “You can barely stand.”

Loki blinked before pushing Thor’s hand away. Above their heads, the ball of light was flickering.

“I need no rest,” he said. “We’re running out of time.”

“Loki—”

“The longer we stay in this hole in the ground, the longer we stay without food or water, or sunlight,” said Loki. “I don’t know about you, but I had not prepared for a day trip here.”

Thor’s jaw set. He turned away sourly, continuing his walk forward. Loki wiped his chin with his hand as if Thor’s touch had left unpleasant grime on his skin. Thor left a cold chill in his stead; Loki found it difficult to breathe it in.

“I don’t know if this is going upward,” Loki said.

“Why do you say that?” Thor said. “Don’t you feel it under your feet?”

“It’s colder,” Loki said. “It’s getting much colder. We’re going downward, aren’t we? We’re going deeper.”

Thor turned to Loki. The look on his face made Loki want to step back, if he could bring his legs to move at all.

“You?” Thor said. “ _You_ feel like it’s getting colder?”

Loki’s hands clenched into fists.

“That’s a wretched slight coming from the supposedly redeemed and reinstated crown prince,” Loki said.

“No—I didn’t mean—” Thor let out a heavy breath before approaching Loki again. Loki immediately stepped back and regretted the quick movement. The pain wracked his entire left side and he wanted to vomit. “You think it’s colder, but I don’t feel a difference.”

“You’ve been squirming from this cold this whole time, you wouldn’t notice if you were just cold or very cold,” Loki said. Thor wouldn’t stop coming closer, and Loki didn’t know how much energy he could pointlessly spend. “I would notice. Stop _coming_ to me like that.”

Thor’s gaze flickered downward toward the vambraces on Loki’s leg, then back up to Loki’s face with dawning horror. Loki felt like Thor was raining the same rocks upon him, trapping him, rendering him immobile and defenceless in the face of Thor’s attention and accusation.

“You’re limping,” said Thor. “You can barely stand, much less walk.”

“You’re blind,” Loki said. His words lacked too much conviction.

“You’re _hurt_ ,” Thor said. His face was unreadable—it could be fury or worry, Loki had long lost the ability to tell the difference. “Have you been hurt this whole time?”

“We have no time to _lose_ ,” Loki said.

Thor bent down before Loki could scramble out of his reach, clamping his hand over Loki’s foot to keep him from moving it away. Loki would kick Thor’s face, if he could move at all.

“Is it broken?” Thor said.

He reached out to touch it. Loki immediately tried to pull his leg away, but the movement was so brash that it was wrought with pain and he fell. Thor immediately jumped back, holding up his hands as if to declare his innocence. Loki felt his breath get knocked out of him as his back met the ground unceremoniously. His head ached—he felt as if his brain was liquid, sloshing in his skull, filling too much space that it was threatening to break his head.

“Dammit,” Loki said breathlessly. “Oh, _dammit_.”

“We need to rest,” Thor said. Loki felt Thor’s hand grab his shoulder and pull him up to a sitting position. The movement made Loki want to vomit. “You’ll only hurt yourself more if we keep going, we need to—”

“No!” Loki used Thor to pull himself back up onto his feet. He was panting now, shivering—it was so damn _cold_. “No, we have to—we’re going to both be _dead_ within two days if we linger.”

“And you’ll be dead if you continue like this!” said Thor.

“I can’t do much about it, can I?” said Loki. “Unless you have a makeshift splint and maybe some healing stones behind that cape of yours—unlikely.”

“You have your seidr,” said Thor. “Why don’t you use it?”

He looked up to the orb of light above their heads—the light was dim, barely a single flame in the room of this cave, and shuddered as if the wind was threatening its life. Thor’s countenance grew graver.

“You’re weakening,” Thor said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Loki said, closing his eyes.

“ _Dammit_ , Loki—” Before Loki could protest, Thor pulled Loki’s arm over his shoulders and kept his hand at Loki’s side, supporting him. “It’s honestly a genuine surprise you aren’t already _dead_.”

Loki let out a sharp gasp as he stumbled, leaning heavily on Thor. It was insulting to have Thor be the one to criticise considering Thor was at one point the one to dive into the ocean in the middle of winter with absolutely nothing on because a dare goaded him to, but Loki found it useless to protest when he was trying not to groan in pain. Thor was warm; not enough to dull Loki’s shivering, but warm.

“It’s not too late for that,” Loki said.

“Shut up,” said Thor.

He hobbled forward with Thor’s help. They moved at half the pace as before, barely covering the ground so desperately needed to crawl out of this godforsaken hole. How many other bones and how much other dust had made the wrong venture down here, lost their way, and were left to die of exposure and rot in the very place they died? The thought horrified him at first—bodies that were not put to peace, souls that did not die in glorious battle—but then giggles frothed up his throat, burning hot and spilling out of his lips until he nearly doubled over, and Thor had to pull him up to make some sense out of him.

“What is it now?” said Thor. He shook Loki gently, as if to drain the rest of the mirth out of him. “What madness has gotten into you?”

Loki shook his head, his shoulders shaking from his own hilarity. He nearly had to cling to Thor, more so than he already needed to, to keep from falling.

“Loki—” Thor was nervous now, his fingers digging into Loki’s arm around his neck. “Loki, enough.”

“Oh, Thor,” Loki said, gasping for breath. His cheeks hurt. “If I truly died here, you wouldn’t even need to worry about bringing my body back this time around. I’m already properly interred!”

Loki’s knees bent underneath his weight at this revelation this awfully _convenient_ coincidence. This was all that this cave was—an elaborate, suitable grave for those whom none would miss. It was well under the ground, far from sunlight, far from vultures and bilgesnipes to devour what was left—a whole forest as a grave marker. He could share it with a hundred other lost souls who wasted away here, just as unmissed and unbothered. It was grander than he would have ever deserved—a grave castle.

Beside him, Thor pulled Loki closer to his side. His grip stiffened, and he said nothing.

* * *

 

Loki was drowning. He was drowning from the inside out. Hot, boiling water was attacking him, seeping out of his head and into his lungs, his nose, his eyes, his head was still so full of it that it wobbled on his too thin neck, it made cracks in the dam, splintered off bone. It was boiling water in him, steaming, boiling water clouding his vision and clogging his throat, his breath. He was sweating, he was drowning in that sweat, saltwater like a sea pouring from his pores, but he couldn’t stop shaking, limbs convulsing, like he was _cold_ the gall of him, like his head was chopped off and his useless body was still twitching from the blow.

_Right foot, left foot—_

The ground was tilting—when did this cave turn into a maze, into a damn funhouse playing tricks on them until Loki was sliding, slipping to the ground, needing Thor to drag him back into place? They weren’t walking along the ground, like Loki thought—they were walking along the walls, on the ceiling, in the corners where the world turned upside-down, like the Norns picked up Asgard like it was a ball and spun it, shook it, tossed it amongst each other and making Loki’s world spin.

_Right hand left hand—_

He should be crawling, dragging himself across this dust. This standing, this swaying back and forth like a tree tormented in a storm, it made him sick to his stomach. He needed to be close to the ground, close enough so that he wouldn’t ever be afraid of falling. He needed to lie down, needed to stop and breathe, his head was hurting…

“Loki.”

Thor’s voice was so far away and muffled, like cotton was stuffed in Loki’s head—like he was someone’s hunt and kill, and his body was stuffed as a trophy to be paraded through gilded halls, like one of Thor’s old bilgesnipe kills when he was young, with glass eyes and stuffing up its snout until the scales were ripping—

“Loki!”

There was a hand on Loki’s forehead. It was bitterly cool—it almost disgusted Loki, and he turned his head away.

“Norns,” Thor said. “You’re positively burning up.”

Loki tried to speak, but his tongue was heavy. Hot water, soaking thick cotton, clogging his insides, the internal caves in his system was flooding.

“Leg,” Loki said. He could hardly speak. “Damn _leg_ is inf-f-f—”

“Save your breath,” Thor said. “I know.”

His lips hurt. His throat and tongue hurt. He was so _thirsty_ but there wasn’t a trickle of water, no underground river.

He wanted to lie down. He couldn’t spin if he was lying down.

No, he had to keep walking. He needed to get out of this cave, he needed to get out of here. He needed fresh air, he needed air, he needed to get out of here—he felt the several hundred feet of ground weighing down on his head, felt the walls of the cave closing in on him in the same way that his throat was closing in, his lungs, his blood vessels to his head. All of Asgard was weighing down on his shoulders and threatening to collapse on him, bury him alive, crush his bones under the sheer pressure.

“Sit down,” Thor said. “You need to rest.”

“Shouldn’t stop,” Loki said. He tried not to vomit. “We don’t have _time_ to stop.”

“You can barely walk,” Thor said. “I’m practically dragging you.”

Loki pushed Thor away and nearly fell onto his side. He moved as if he were trudging through quicksand, slowly drowning. Thor grabbed him roughly by the forearm.

“Don’t be stupid,” Thor said. “Don’t try to prove a point.”

“Let go of me,” said Loki.

“You’re going to ruin your leg this way!”

“Let go of me.”

“Don’t be so damn _stupid_!”

“I said _let go of me_.”

Loki matched Thor’s glare tenfold. He wouldn’t have Thor dragging him if it was that troublesome. He didn’t need any help anymore. He survived the Void, he survived getting stabbed through the chest, he survived losing himself, he could damn well survive an infected broken leg if he so truly desired.

“What are you trying to prove?” Thor said. “Are you trying to ruin yourself?”

“I suppose if I die like this, at least you’d have visual proof that it actually happened,” Loki said.

Thor’s hand shot out and gripped Loki’s wrist. Loki tried to pull away, but if he tried he knew he would only just break that as well.

“Is this all some joke to you?” Thor said. “Considering what you deserve, I ought to execute you. I ought to put you on Asgard’s gallows for everything you’ve _thrown_ at me—” He swallowed, his breaths jagged. Loki tried not to shake in Thor’s grip. “—but no matter how much you would deserve it, no matter how much I _hate_ you—hate you for everything you’ve done—I can’t bear it. I can’t bear you dying, I can’t bear you getting hurt and just letting yourself get hurt, I can’t bear hearing you _talk_ like this, so please—”

“Why can’t you?” Loki said. He was breathing heavily; he had no force or power in his voice like Thor’s did, but where Thor’s cracked and faltered, Loki’s rasping grew spikes. “Why can’t you just—?” _Stop caring_? “—forget your antique sentiment? We both know there’s nothing holding us together anymore, not name, not love, not battle in life, not—”

His words broke and he was breathless. Suddenly he felt very cold, the blood draining from his face. He stumbled back, slipping from Thor’s grip. Thor paused before turning sharply to look behind him, where Loki was staring.

“What is it now?” Thor said. “Did you see something? Is something there?”

Loki couldn’t breathe. His fevered head throbbed and his vision was blurring, but he didn’t know if it was because of the illness or because of the tears welling in his eyes, the rush in his chest that made him feel so very aware of his body, his every inch, his fingertips.

“Mother?” Loki said.

The anger drained from Thor’s face, leaving behind ashen panic. Loki sidestepped Thor, limping forward. He felt a smile stretch on his trembling, parched lips as he reached forward. The ball of light above their head flickered, but he didn’t need it to see her.

Frigga reached her hands out to him. Her hands were small compared to his—she was small compared to him—but he felt like a young child walking to her now. A laugh escaped him and he moved faster toward her, trying to catch her.

“Mother, oh Norns—!” His head hurt so much but he felt weightless, coming to her. She was golden, perfect, the sun in this Void, he was coming closer to her. His head was _pounding_ but oh Norns, she was _here_ and he wanted to hold her hands.

“Loki!”

Suddenly, ropes were choking him, wrapping around him and tying him back. Loki cried out, trying to wrestle out of them, trying to reach out to Frigga, but he couldn’t touch her. No matter how much he fought, he couldn’t reach her.

Frigga continued smiling. As if this was all so very normal, as if she never expected him to reach for her hand. His heart raced and he fought, straining against these binds, this trap, _he was in a trap,_ like an animal—

“Mother!” Loki choked out.

They were choking him, the ropes were choking him—he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, his eyes were watering and he _couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe_ , someone was trapping him, something was ensnaring him and he couldn’t get to his mother. His head spun and he could hardly see anything, couldn’t see the stones or the shadows, only Frigga.

“Mama, help me!” Loki cried. He gasped for breath, the ropes were chains now, they clamped his wrists to a wall, to a prison, clamped them together, he was prisoner to this cave, he couldn’t touch her. “ _Mama, please catch me_!”

“Oh God, Loki!” Thor’s voice broke out. “Oh God!”

There were no chains, no ropes snaring Loki away from Frigga. There was nothing before him but black shadows, a ledge to a dip, nothing but rocks breaking off and leaving crumbling dust. There were Thor’s arms, wrapped tightly around him, keeping him from stepping over the edge.

Loki felt Thor’s face buried in his shoulders. Thor was shaking. So was Loki. Loki’s eyes burned and he let out a ragged gasp. Frigga was gone. Frigga was never here. Maybe if he stepped over the ledge, and fell another two hundred feet, maybe then he could have seen her again. But that was a cruel lie, because Valhalla would slam its doors in his face, and would not do so little as let him say goodbye to Frigga, even through prison bars or windows, one last time.

His head hurt tremendously. His lips were cracked, and he was so tired.

“Oh, brother,” Thor breathed. He held Loki tightly, as if their lives depended on it. “Do you still say love no longer holds us together?”

Loki thought he could still see a brush of Frigga, somewhere amongst the shadows, but he didn’t turn his head to look. His skin was searing.

* * *

 

Loki woke with a start, without realising that he had fallen asleep in the first place.

He would have not been able to tell the difference between sleep and wakefulness if it were not for the sliver of light still left from his seidr, drooping over his head. It was only enough to see the shadows on his hands, but hardly his fingers.

He closed his eyes again, taking in deep breaths. His head hurt even more now—he was shivering uncontrollably and so _cold_ , but he could feel the heat from his fever radiate from his skin. His leg was numb now, the pain so uncontrollable that his mind refused to acknowledge it for the risk of losing itself. At the very least, his head did not spin—he could not fall when he was already curled up on the ground.

Something was heavy upon him. Warm, feeble attempts to suppress his shivering, but only feeble. He couldn’t see in the light—his sight was blurred, as if he was opening his eyes underwater, and colours were nothing but darker shades of grey. He reached weak fingers to curl around it and took a breath. It smelled of Thor.

He swallowed hard. He wanted to hide his face underneath it, to curl up under its protection and try to find warmth. His entire body ached too much to move that much.

“Thor,” Loki said.

His voice croaked—dusty, like an abandoned house not touched in centuries, empty of ghosts. There was no response.

Loki reached out a hand, feeling around him. Maybe Thor was sleeping as well—there was no point in one keeping watch over the other in sleep when there was no other living breath but their own in these caves. Maybe Thor had not yet roused.

He felt nothing but cold, dry stone. He tried to crane his neck to look for himself, but his head hurt so, and he still could not see. With the sparse energy he could spare, he urged the light to strengthen. It flickered, sparking a shade brighter for a moment before flaking away to dimness, doing nothing more than give away where the shadows were hiding.

“Thor?” Loki said.

He was suddenly aware of how heavy his heartbeat was, pounding like a guard come to arrest at someone’s door. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, breathing heavily when his entire body protested. This was no wide room where Thor could be fifty feet and still _here_ —it was a tiny corner, a small passageway where sitting up could already almost touch the ceiling.

“Brother,” Loki whispered.

He was trembling. Nothing answered him—not an echo, not a stir, not even a single drop of water. Silence, but his own laboured breathing.

Oh God, Loki thought, his chest tightening. Oh _God._

Thor was gone. Thor had left him behind, Thor had had enough. Loki should have never fallen asleep, should never have let his guard down, never given in to the possibility of rest, of healing. He had been weak, had surrendered to sleep, and Thor saw his chance and _ran_. He must have saw, must have realised how much of a burden Loki was now, now that he could hardly walk, now that he was violently ill—must have saw that his chances of coming out alive, of survival, were tightened much slimmer if he let Loki cling to him, saw how Loki was a lost case, a hopeless cause with a damned leg and a fast-spreading infection and _left him behind—_

Loki’s breathing grew shallower. His head spun. He tried to stand up, tried to push himself off the ground, tried to not be _weak_ , but he let out a groan and collapsed back against the wall. Thor left him here to die, _left him here to die_ _alone_ , and Loki knew he should have seen this coming, he knew he couldn’t blame Thor for wanting to survive.

He heard nothing. Saw nothing. It was silent, darkness, alone. He was alone.

Loki crawled, desperately clinging to the stone to keep himself from slumping to the ground. He needed to find a way out. He needed to get out. _He needed to survive_.

Thor left him alone to die.

He tried to make brighter his light, but it refused. He tried again, gritting his teeth to pour himself into that single light, that single hope for survival. The effort left him breathless and he collapsed against the cold stone, shuddering. The small light shrivelled, giving one last spark, before it drained away completely, leaving him in utter darkness.

It was cold. Loki didn’t move an inch. It was all utter blackness around him. He couldn’t see his hand that he felt curled into a weak fist before his face, he couldn’t see the cloak over his shoulders, couldn’t see the icy, overwhelming fear that was falling through him.

Suddenly, he was in the Void again. Falling, cold, ice clinging to his eyes, his throat, chilling his blood. Falling—no stars in sight, through space that even suns did not touch, once in a million years, falling—no sound, no one else but him, he couldn’t even scream to keep himself sane it was just _silence_. Falling—he was alone, he was absolutely, completely alone and he couldn’t save himself.

Falling, and oh God, he was _alone_.

No—he was not in the Void. He was not falling. He was on the ground; he felt the ground upon his burning cheek, felt the rock against his back. He was not lost in space, tangled in the stars—he was solely, utterly, on a realm, on Asgard, _in_ Asgard, and yet it was no different from the Void because he couldn’t see, he was alone, and if he screamed for help no one could hear him.

He tried to breathe in, breathe out, but the faster he tried to breathe the less air that came through his lungs. He was drowning in this empty space, he was _drowning in this cavernous space_ , drowning with his feet planted on the ground, _in the ground_ , _he was alone—_

Loki let out a choked cry. His head _pounded_ , and his body was wracked with so much pain, so much _illness_ but he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t do anything to keep it at bay.

_Thor—_

He tried to call out another ball of light—his hand sparked for a moment, as if lightning flashed, but nothing. He tried again—nothing more than the light of a firefly emitted from his palm. Again—nothing at all.

Maybe there was nothing. Maybe nothing existed and that was why he couldn’t see. There was nothing to see because there was nothing. He was in nothing and he couldn’t prove it. Nothing existed, nothing was real, if he couldn’t see it, he had no eyes, he had no lungs if he couldn’t feel satisfied with breath, he had no blood because it did not warm him, _nothing_ was real—

Cold rock, pressed against his cheek. Crinkled rock, against his back. Thor’s cloak, upon him. These were real. These were real, and if these were real then the body he felt them with was real. He was real.

He took deep breaths.

Hallucinations, he thought. Hallucinations, don’t let them in, don’t let them in—

He heard voices, and he knew they weren’t real. They wracked him since the fever started, since he nearly pitched over the edge before Thor caught him. Voices that he knew were not real, because ghosts were not real, because no one was in this cave except Thor and himself, and now just himself. Don’t let the hallucinations in, he told himself, over and over again, until he could drown out his fevered mind with his desperation.

 _Loki,_ they would say, _Loki._

It was almost always—always—in Frigga’s voice.

Loki screwed his eyes shut, not that it made a difference, not that it made himself feel safer, better, less afraid. He was shivering so much, to the point where he wanted to vomit from the sheer amount of _movement_.

Not real, he told himself. He was real. This cave was real. What he could not see was real. But Frigga’s voice was not real.

 _Maybe it was_.

No, he scolded himself. She was dead. He didn’t truly see her, couldn’t really listen to her. She was dead.

_But so are you._

Loki’s breath stopped short. A breathless laugh nearly escaped his lips, but he was too tired to make a sound.

He wasn’t dead. If this was death, with a very living fever and pain, then this was a damned death.

But wasn’t that what he deserved?

He swallowed hard. He tasted sourness in his throat, coating like oil. He clenched his teeth, barring a groan from escaping.

If he was dead, maybe that was why he saw Frigga. Maybe she was what was real, not this panic, not this illness. She was the real one, and he was running away from her thinking she was a figment of his wild imagination.

_If you were truly dead, you would never be with her in Valhalla, would you?_

Loki’s heart clenched.

Why, asked the child in him. He saw it—be it hallucination, be it reality, be it his imagination losing utter and absolute control. He saw it—he was bending down, to be eye-to-eye level with his child self, his younger self. His child self was staring at him with hopeful light eyes, eyes welling with tears, a choked question on his small lips, and he was telling his child self he was going to Hel, he was not going to Valhalla when he passed, that when Mother would pass and he would pass, he would never see her again. He was looking his child self in the eyes and telling him, you will go to Hel.

I don’t want to go to Hel, said this child self, said this foolish, desperate, self that was locked up inside of Loki, inside of him, that was so naïve and frightened. I don’t want to go to Hel, please, why can’t I go to Valhalla, why can’t I be with Mama?

Because—Loki didn’t know to whom he was speaking, to this side of him, like it was an outside entity, like it was a part he could remove from himself, for the hope that he would be less afraid if he could kill it himself.

Because you are _wicked—_

Because you are _a coward—_

Because you’re a _monster—_

 _Because you’re_ already in Hel _._

Loki choked. This was the Hel he was taught about—the lonely realm for the dead, for those who were not heroes, who were not good, who were not blessed. This was the realm where there was sobbing, moaning, gnashing of teeth, with no hand to hold, no salve to bind wounds. He thought that if he died, he would finally escape his lonely life, his pain, his brokenness, but if this was Hel then it did nothing but continue it, make it permanent, make it inescapable. This was not like Hel, this _was_ Hel—he was already dead, he was already condemned and lost, and there was no going out, no going back, he was here for good and he deserved it, and he would never see Frigga or Thor or light again.

This was Hel, and he was _so alone_ , and what sucked him dry, what made his throat swell and what made his eyes burn, was that he still felt broken, even in Hel. That he yearned so desperately, painfully, for Frigga, for Thor, for someone, he yearned, he _wanted_ , he loved, and he knew that he would never see them again, that he didn’t deserve to. He was here for good, he was depraved, he was a monster, he could never see the light of Valhalla where his mother and brother would be.

“Please—” Loki choked. He didn’t know to whom he was speaking—to himself, to the Norns, to Frigga, to Valhalla, to Hel, to life and death and the realms and existence. “Please…”

And his wretched begging would do nothing, would not make him any bit worthy of Valhalla. He died a useless death, no hero’s death, he died a loveless death and it was too late.

His eyes burned. He covered his mouth with a shaking hand—he wept, but it was useless. He was alone, he was gone, he couldn’t leave. He was alone.

He was so _alone_.

“Mama,” Loki said—he could hardly force the sound out, his throat was so swollen, so throbbing, but he cried out, as if there was any hope of being heard. “Mama, oh Mama, please—brother, please, Mama, I—”

Mama, I want you, brother I want you Mama please I want you Mama I _need you_ —

“Loki?”

Breath stopped in Loki’s lungs. He could scarcely move, suddenly both very afraid and very in need.

He was hearing voices again. He was being taunted again, tormented again. Nothing was real, nothing was real.

“Loki, are you there?” Thor’s voice wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real, because Thor wouldn’t be in Hel. Loki swallowed hard. Thor couldn’t be in Hel, because he shouldn’t have to be alone like this. He shouldn’t have to suffer like this, his brother shouldn’t have to suffer like this— “Are you awake? Where is your light?”

There was a crackle, and white light that stung Loki’s eyes. Loki turned his head just enough to be able to see it—an outline of Mjölnir, crackling with thin threads of lightning, lighting Thor’s way.

Loki breathed in, breathed out. Thor was real—that light was real, he could see now. The walls that were closing in, the gypsum that crumbled over their heads like fine white snow. This was real, this was the cave he was lost in, this was Thor, coming. This was not Hel. This was real.

He couldn’t speak.

When Thor came close enough, Loki could see his face. Suddenly he felt very drained, exhausted—he wanted to sleep again.

“I found water,” Thor said. “There’s a small trickle a little ways off, it should be clean enough for—Loki?”

Anxiousness dawned on Thor’s face. He hurried over to Loki, kneeling next to Loki. His calloused hand slid beneath Loki’s head to cradle it from the hard ground. Loki was gasping for breath—he could barely see Thor. He reached out a shaking hand, trying to feel for Thor’s. Thor silently consented, gripping Loki’s fingers tightly.

“You’ve gotten warmer,” Thor said. “Loki, do you think you can walk? You need water—Loki?”

Loki brought Thor’s hand to his lips. He was shaking—he felt it against Thor’s grip, felt it when he pressed Thor’s knuckles to his lips, grateful for Thor’s presence, his reality, that he came back for Loki. He had no energy to speak, to move any other way; he could only hold Thor’s hand and tremble.

Thor said nothing. He did not pull his hand away from Loki’s. After a moment, his fist stiffened, tightened. He wordlessly gathered Loki in his arms, holding him close to his chest. The disturbance made Loki’s limbs ache, but he couldn’t fight it off, nor would he have protested. He could only let his head fall against Thor’s shoulder; the coolness of the Thor’s metal armour was not enough to soothe his fever.

“Come on, brother,” Thor said. His voice was quiet. “I’ve got you.”

* * *

 

The first sign of light was shadow.

Loki couldn’t walk anymore. He had no energy anymore to cast a light or even lift his head in Thor’s arms, much less climb. Thor had to pull Loki over his shoulders to clamber over the rocks, and Loki could only hang limply off of him, half in reality and half in a nightmare. He was convinced he was in Hel—other times seeing cold, alien fingers reaching out for them from the dark, in the shadows of Mjölnir’s light. Other times unconvinced he was either alive or dead.

“Do you know why I did it?” Loki said.

Thor was struggling to keep stead, his hands clinging to the rock face for both of their lives. He was breathing heavily, he was holding on tight.

“What?” Thor said.

He could barely choke out the words. Loki knew Thor would be out of the cave himself if he wasn’t carrying Loki. He didn’t know whether to tell Thor to give up, to leave him behind, like he ought to, or to foolishly cling to a hope he did not deserve. Perhaps it was another mark of his wickedness that he did not tell his brother to save himself like a good man would—his fear of dying to Hel too strong to not want to live too.

“Why I didn’t tell you I lived?” Loki said. “When I came out alive from Sv-v-v—”

He lost his breath. Thor stopped, as if that could help Loki breathe, but he could barely catch up to it.

“Stop talking,” said Thor. “Just don’t speak. You’ll lose your energy.”

Loki couldn’t read Thor’s voice to understand what he was thinking, feeling. He was going both bind and paraplegic.

“I thought—” Loki could barely raise his voice above a whisper. His gasps were louder than his words. “I thought it’d be—that you and I—we’d be happier if—”

“Loki, _stop. Please_.”

“—if we died loving each other,” Loki said. “If I died loving you maybe you’d love me too, maybe you’d…”

“Loki.”

Thor’s voice sounded rubbed raw. Loki was spilling words now, vomiting thoughts instead of the nothing but water he took in for the past several days.

“I didn’t want to go back, I didn’t want to be a prisoner, didn’t want—”

“You’re rambling,” said Thor. “You’re sick, you’re losing your mind. You’ll be so—you’ll be upset with yourself later for this.”

Was there going to be a later? Loki did not know.

“Do you hate me?” said Loki. “Thor, do you hate me?”

There was nothing Loki had done that would undo the anger that ultimately came. Any good he tried was immediately overshadowed by the wrongs that came with just being alive. He didn’t know why he asked.

“I was a fool,” he said. “Always a fool. Do you hate me?”

“Stop this,” Thor said. “Stop it, you’re talking like you’re—”

What it was that Thor meant to say, Loki could not hear. He weaved in and out of consciousness, sometimes aware that his head was hanging, that he could move his fingers, that his leg still burned like hell, sometimes unaware of what was life compared to death.

The first sign of life were shadows, like oil stains on the rock.

Thor had stopped; Loki felt him give a start, his hand flying immediately to Loki to make sure Loki would not accidentally slip off. Loki nearly vomited from the sudden movement.

“Loki,” Thor said in a hoarse whisper. “Loki, I see.”

Loki could only make a sound to acknowledge he heard Thor. He was half-awake, concentrating on breathing. His head felt like it would snap off his neck from its own weight and roll all the way down.

“There’s light,” Thor said. “That’s sunlight, that’s—oh, Norns, it’s—”

 Loki could only turn his head a little. His heart shuddered; at the very top, far from their reach, there was light, trickling weakly onto the rocks. It must have been from a sinkhole, from some opening to the cave that the mouth had missed, but it was _sunlight_.

“Hold on,” Thor said. He gave Loki a firm grip on his wrist, a shake. “Hold on, Loki. We’re almost there. I’m going to climb up, and we’ll be out, we’re _almost there_.”

The climb would be painfully steep. The rocks were sharp and unwelcoming, wide and far from each other to reach. Thor struggled just to hold on and stay upright, to keep Loki from slipping from his back, much less climbing up. The light hadn’t yet even touched his face yet, and it was sweating from the effort.

It was tantalising, it was tempting—Loki couldn’t tell how big the hole was, if it was a trick of both their minds, a mirage to temper their dying consciousness, to ease their last moments with futile hope before they both died of exposure. But he could have sworn he could smell the air of the forest, bleeding through the cold, dry cave, could have sworn he heard the wind tangle the leaves outside, if he just held his breath to concentrate—

“Shit—!”

Thor had tried to swing himself to grab onto a better grip, but with trying to keep Loki on his shoulder his arm couldn’t reach far enough. The folly sent him falling, sliding down the rock slope and grinding his skin against the stone. Loki’s arm was crushed between the rock and Thor, the skin chaffing off after scraping against the rock as they slid down.

They skidded to a stop, a heap of broken, battered limbs. Loki’s thin breaths matched with Thor’s strenuous ones. Thor spat out a curse word before pushing himself off of the ground. He roughly pulled Loki onto his back; Loki could feel blood on Thor’s ripped skin.

“Come on,” Thor said. “I can do this. We can do this. Come on.”

He hauled Loki onto his back and tried again. Loki could barely comprehend the passing of time through that small hole in their sky, the light growing brighter with midday. The little light that Thor could reach made his blood and sweat all the more real, and Loki’s heart clenched. Both mixed with each other, blood and saltwater, and poured in rivulets, trying to bring Loki out to safety.

Thor slipped—it was too much—and they were sliding down again. Thor let out a roar of frustration, but did not stop before he was on his feet again, carrying Loki, trying to climb up to the world. But Thor was weak now, after no food or water, no sunlight, staling air—he fell, and fell, and each yell of anger and infuriation at his own inadequacy grew hoarser and hoarser. When he tried to use Mjölnir to break his way through, for them to fly through, it only shattered the thick rock, nearly bludgeoning them with Asgard’s soil.

Blood and sweat ran in rivulets. Thor was going to die this way—he was going to die.

They were fallen again, crumpled, defeated on the cave floor. Thor was breathing harder now, his limbs shaking. Loki felt his heart clench in his chest, not out of illness or pain. He saw Thor, in the dim greyness of this hardly lit cave room, his face bloodied and torn, his teeth clenched. Thor was going to _die_ this way.

When Thor came—crawled—over to Loki, to pull him up again, to pick him up, Loki grabbed Thor’s wrist immediately. Thor paused.

“Come on,” Thor said. Loki could barely hear those words in the midst of Thor trying to breathe. “Let’s go.”

“Go,” Loki said.

His voice was barely above a sigh. He could hardly keep his eyes open, but when he could he kept them fastened on Thor.

Thor sucked in a sharp breath. Loki tightened his hold on Thor’s wrist. His hand shook, but he didn’t want to let go, just yet. Because once Thor turned away, once he stood up and left, perhaps Loki wouldn’t see him again.

“Go,” Loki said again. “You can climb on your own. You’re strong enough.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Thor said. “You can’t.”

“I know,” Loki said.

Thor’s eyes widened. He tried to pull away, as if to force that this pained, desperate grip Loki had on Thor was not the last.  

“You can’t carry me,” Loki said. “You won’t make it. You’ll die before you do.”

“Shut up, Loki,” Thor said. There was fear in his voice. “Shut up, right now, before—”

“You can’t make it and you know it,” Loki said. He spoke fast, before Thor could lose more water, more energy, more strength to make his last climb to freedom. “I’m lost, I’m a lost cause— _please_ , Thor—” He choked, but spoke on. “Don’t try to save me. Save yourself. Get out of here. You can make it. Save yourself.”

“Don’t be so stupid,” Thor said. His voice was shaking. He clapped a clumsy, bloody hand on Loki’s cheek. The fever burned his skin. “Don’t be so damn _stupid_ , Loki, I won’t—”

“Go,” Loki said. “Go, before I lose my dignity, before I give into fear. I will not have you die trying to bring me out of the darkness. It isn’t worth it. I’m a lost cause—”

“No, you are _not_ —”

“There’s no water near us, there’s no food, you will die soon—”

“And what about you—?”

“ _Leave me,_ Thor!” Loki was close to sobbing now. He couldn’t breathe between words. “Leave me and climb. Or—or bash my head in with a rock, give me the mercy of a fast death, and I swear to you I cannot haunt you anymore!”

He didn’t want to go to Hel. He didn’t want to be lost in the eternity of brokenness, of loneliness, of lovelessness, but he didn’t want Thor to die. Not for this, not for him. He didn’t want to die alone, but he didn’t want Thor to die at all.

Thor was still. Loki fought down sobs, fought down the urge to be weak, to need Thor. He was not a child anymore, who needed Thor to save him from blankets and candlesticks, who held onto Thor out of both fear and joy. If he was to die alone, then let it be so, so long as Thor would _live_.

Suddenly, Thor gathered Loki into his arms and hugged him tight. Loki gave a sharp gasp, the quick movement making him dizzy, but he reached a hand to grip Thor tightly. This was his goodbye, and he didn’t want to forget, in the last moments, before Thor bashed his head in, before he disappeared through the golden light and closed up the hole forever to bury Loki, how warm Thor was.

But before Loki could understand, he felt himself being lifted from the ground. Thor rose to his shaking feet, cradling Loki in his bleeding arms. He took one step, another, another, toward the slope, toward the climb, one last time.

“Brother—” Loki said.

Thor cut off Loki’s protest with the climb. His feet shook, but refused to lose its place as he took it one step at a time, holding Loki so tightly and so closely. He was panting, gulping down air like the water he was parched for, but it only made him climb higher.

“You can’t do this,” Loki said. He was on the verge of tears, if he had anything left in him. “You can’t, I’m not worth it, Thor, please, I’m not…”

Thor said nothing. He didn’t have to. He didn’t cry out in pain as he jumped for the footholds that he so desperately needed, did not grunt from the strain of carrying both their weight. The light was drawing closer—Loki could almost feel it against his ashen skin.

“Hold onto me,” Thor said. It was like Thor gained a new strength, some undying drive to let Loki live. “Brother, hold onto me. We’re almost there. We’re almost there.”

Thor’s voice was so far away. Oceans, and oceans away, and Loki was bobbing across the surface, across the waves, swallowed by the sea—sometimes gasping for breath and other times in muddled, senseless dream. Every time, Thor pulled him back up, out of the water, out to take breath, to rise above the waves.

He could almost smell the trees. The fresh rain on the grass. He thought he heard the birds.

“We’re almost there, Loki!” Thor said. He was nearly shouting—he must have known that Loki was beginning to be unable to hear him. “We’re almost there—think of the sun, Loki, oh, it’ll _kiss_ us. The wind, the breeze—it’s summer, remember? It’s summer and it’ll be warm and we’ll want to throw ourselves into the river to bathe. Fresh, clean water, so blue, Loki—hold on, brother!”

Loki felt warmth on his face. He didn’t know if it was sunlight, or if it were tears. Either way, his sight was blurring.

“We’ll gorge ourselves on hunt,” Thor said. “We’ll drink ourselves sick with water and wine—we’ll have your leg healed, we’ll run, we’ll see the sky. Hold on, brother, I’ll bring you out. I’ll bring you out of this darkness. Hold onto me, brother, I won’t let you go.”

With one last shout, Thor pushed forward. Loki felt bits of rock and soil scatter, clouding the air, and he took a breath. The air was clean.

The sunlight was so bright, it stung. Loki closed his eyes.


End file.
